


The Queens Men

by markgatiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 007 Watson, AU, Dark! Mycroft, F/M, Holmescest; is codependency relationship not sexual, M/M, Secret Service - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, dub con, johncroft and sherstrade are the main ships in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markgatiss/pseuds/markgatiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captian John Watson, also known as the Crack shot Assassin, remembers the first day he met Mycroft Holmes. He had been on a mission, chasing after a low profile rookie agent who had spilled government secrets, when he slammed into Mycroft Holmes knocking them both down onto the wet streets of London. He wasn’t sure if it was his love of expensive cigars, a smell he was sure he could pinpoint on Mycrofts expensive suit, or the raised eyebrow paired with a smirk of a man who merely pressed a gun into John’s hip unafraid and poised to fight. John never asked why Mycroft had a gun on his person, it never occurred to him that it might be more than a safety precaution, possibly a job requirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queens Men

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the notes at the beginning but I'd like to show them quickly.  
> I own nothing and I will be deviating quite a bit from real life military and secret service actions. Think of this as a cheesy rom-com fanfiction in which the writer honestly just wanted to write without doing an overwhelming amount of research.  
> My apologies if you dislike that. It’s my first so be constructive not mean or I might cry. I realize certain words are spelt differently between the uk/us but I will be writing mostly US variants i.e. defense rather defence – but will still try to stay true to slang like ‘wanker’.

Mycroft paced back and forth along the wet pavement letting the hard London rain obscure his vision of the distant streets, he was uncomfortable and nervous. Although no bystander save for Sherlock or Irene would see his outside appearance as anything other than a slightly agitated man waiting for a late wife or friend perhaps. He stood for a moment letting his senses relax. Today had been most trying for him and no amount of high coat collars would save him if the ‘hounds’ found him before he reached his train station. The morning had begun so dully he could never have suspected it would end with him contemplating the possibility fleeing the secret service –turning himself suddenly into a Level 5 threat, a rogue agent, with intimate details of the Queens treasons against her  country. He didn’t mean to stumble upon a secret treaty that would put America and much of Europe at war if certain ‘agents’ weren’t disposed up quickly and efficiently. His momentary lapse of thought had caused him to knock over a fairly old vase – a gift for the Queen he was sure – as he turned to run away. He had barely escaped the building unseen and thanked the gods several times that cameras were forbidden in the darkest depths of the Ministry of Defense.

He pulled a slender cigar from his case, still holding up his umbrella with poise as he stared out into the pouring rain, lighting it habitually.  It was barely lunch time but he had been up since 3 a.m. dealing with what the Queen deemed a ‘international infiltration breach’. He sighed deeply, he’d barely finished dealing with Anonymous before this new Hacker, I0U, set about disabling their encryptions. He had breathed a sigh of relief after calling a favor in with Q, who had long since went undercover with his charge 007. A deep drag calmed his frayed nerves. He had already texted Sherlock announcing his possible sudden departure from their London flat. 221B had been their playground for as long as he could remember and Mrs. Hudson, their ‘landlady’, was the best quartermaster they had ever had in their charge before. He laughed inwardly, she could be so deceiving with her quiet and motherly personality. It was common knowledge that the ‘the iceman and virgin,’ as other agents referred to them, would kill anyone who dare touch Mrs. Hudson and – he let himself smiley faintly – they had before.

Mycroft heard the loud rise and fall of footsteps before he ever felt the impact. His back hit the cold wet pavement with surprising force and he instantly raised one hand to disarm and disable his assailant while pressing his Walther P99 into the man’s side. The man jerked his gaze from what Mycroft could only assume was his goal to stare into his own. Mycroft quickly assessed the situation; blonde hair, blue eyes, determined, frustrated, running through alleys by the state of his dress, cheap cologne, but military fit body and the fighting posture of a trained man. Had he already been targeted for his information leak? He raised an eyebrow, unable to mask his smirk at his attackers face sprinkled with specks of mud. He pressed the pistol firmly into the man’s ribs.

“Christ! I’m sorry! I was running, and I wasn’t looking in front of me.” He was tense, but he dropped his gaze from Mycroft’s attempting to assume a non-threatening tone. Ah, thought Mycroft, not after me then but another agent. The blonde waited a bit longer before glancing towards Mycroft’s handgun with feigned nervousness – probably attempting to seem like a civilian. He blinked the water out of his eyes before slowly removed it placing it back in its concealed holster.

The rain was causing his assailants hair to flatten around his crown, blonde and shining like a beacon through the London smog. Mycroft found himself enticed, studying the details of his face, attempting to glean any information they might offer. His teeth were a brilliant white, perfectly straightened, regular dentist visits then with good insurance as well, no visible scars but he was covered in a chunky jumper – to hide more of his weapons or to hide scars from an innocent public to whom he wasn’t supposed to exist? Exactly what defense branch was this agent, he obviously wasn’t rogue as he was chasing someone not running from them.

“Do you mind if I move, it’s raining awfully bad out here.” His lips were pink, and his cheeks flushed. Mycroft was not sure if his pupil dilation was because of the man’s attraction to him or simply the dangerous situation. He gave a curt nod allowing the younger man to help him stand. He grimaced at his appearance, this suit alone cost more than most civilians paychecks – Westwood he thought agitatedly.

“I’m John, John Watson, and I cannot apologize enough for your ruined clothing. Please can I at least buy you a drink? And let you dry off?” He handed Mycroft’s now dirtied and trampled umbrella back to him. John’s eyes were bright and shining, obviously his target was of low status if he was simply shrugging off his hunt to have tea with a stranger, Mycroft preened under the attention. He was not going to lie to himself this early in the morning, he missed the attention of other males, especially those unperturbed by ‘civilians’ pointing guns at their vital organs.

“Yes. I think that would be lovely. Mycroft Holmes. Let me text my assistant for new attire. Shall we?” He motioned for John to lead the way. The younger man grinned before offering his arm to Mycroft.

“My pleasure.”

* * *

 

The cafe was quaint and well below Mycroft's normal expense range but he prided himself in knowing most of the smaller shop owners. It was well known between Sherlock and himself that if they were ever to need refuge this would be their first selection of safe havens. Quiet, dark, anonymous and with enough money the 'cafe's' could make anyone disapear. He probably had Sherlock's bohemian nature to thank for that. His alliances with the homeless network had spilled over into alliances with homeless' other secret networks which of course included what appeared to be a lovely cafe converted into safe houses for runaways, drug dealers, and if the need ever arose double agents. If this is where the agent - John, he reminded himself - wanted to take him then he would sit and enjoy the man's company. He could not stop himself from wondering if this coffee shop was a coincidence or if John had alliances here as well.

John's outfit was wet and dripping as they made their way towards the back corner. Two worn cedar chairs awaited them, with an aged wooden chess set in between. The floral patterns that used to adorn them were long worn away leaving nothing more than faint outlines, and the wood was worn from constant use. He vaguely wondered if this was a place John normally took his dates. Judging from the familiarity in his motions and the grin lighting up his face he soon decided it must be. Sentiment for the cafe and its memories was shining through his gestures. John took off his jacket leaving his jumper on, he made to sit down but Mycroft put out a hand gracefully stopping him, "You'll ruin the fabric my dear. Besides," he could feel his phone vibrating, "my assistant brought us replacement clothing." John started to question him, most likely about his current lack of an assitant but quickly shut his mouth as he viewed what could be none other than his immaculate assistant with two replacement clothing bags.

"You didn't have to do that!" John was in disbelief - embarassed - and Mycroft momentarily felt flustered, although it did not show on his face.

"I assure you John, it was no problem, I simply ordered two sets to be brought rather than one."

"I can't just take your clothing!" His voice was rising and Mycroft could suddenly see where he had misjudged John's pride.

Anthea chose that moment to begin tapping her foot impatiently, shifting her weight, and beginning to stare at John with an unimpressed gaze. John instantly began to fumble in his arguement his train of thought sidetracked. Mycroft took pity on the him. He was obviously a repressed bisexual if nothing else. To flirt with a man you just ran into isn't exactly heteronormative behavior he thought absentmindedly.

"John, please, it's no trouble. Honestly, it's just some old clothing. Please take it so Anthea can return to her duties, you will be dry, and we can order our coffee?" He smiled seductively.

"Uh. Yes. Um, Thank you then." He took the first bag Anthea handed him and quickly dismissed himself to change keeping his eyes close to the ground and shuffling towards the men's room. Mycroft turned to Anthea who was already typing on her Blackberry. She gave him a brief glance, acknowledging he had her attention.

"Anthea, I need you to research John Watson. He's an agent, obviously," She nodded knowingly - one does not work trying to weed out rouge and double agents with out learning to recognize an agent on sight -, "but I need more information. I think he may have been involved in a chase earlier. The man got away, make sure he isn't one of ours." She gave him a curt nod before she turned around her heels clicking softly as she returned to the black car.

Mycroft walked towards the bathrooms hoping that there would be more than the one available he didn't want to crowd the already flustered agent. He let a brief smile play at his lips as he entered seeing John fully suited infront of the bathroom mirror. Had he any sense left of what was considered expensive he might have been appalled that John was wearing his most comfortble Louis Vuitton ensemble[1]. However, with his minor position in the government he had long since forgotten what was considered expensive in the line of fashion and in fact was finding himself very pleased that Anthea had chosen something very close to John's measurements. Although it was a bit less fitted around his waist Mycroft silently thanked Anthea for his latest military regime that had him in nearly perfect shape - nearly. Who was he to deny himself occasional sweets after preemptively stopping world war three. John caught his gaze looking less pleased.

"Are you kidding me? Who the fuck are you?" He took quick, angery steps towards Mycroft his military stance striking, momentarily, fear in his heart. He let out a puff of air as John barred him against the wall with his left arm pulliing his right arm back as if to strike him.

Mycroft refused to show anything other than indifference, "Well, John as much as I like you against me, this is not my idea of fun. What are you going on about?"

John cursed under his breath, "This is fucking Louis Vuitton. Are you a drug dealer?" He pressed him harder. Ah, Mycroft thought a bit fondly, just an agent trying to keep his streets clean. "ARE YOU?"

"I assure you John, I maintain a minor position in the british government," He paused letting the information sink in and slowly pulled his identification out, he almost grinned when John's eyes read his security level labeled 'No Restrictions', "specifically speaking Britian's defense."

John backed up quickly, "I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, sir."

Mycroft gingerly reached out lowering John from his saluting stance before stepping towards the sink to grab paper towels. He silently dried off John's suit sleeves where they had pressed against his own wet - and beginning to chafe! - suit. Mycroft stepped back, "Stay here?"

John simply nodded his mind, Mycroft assumed, was in overdrive. He entered the stall and took his time letting John sort out his actions and words in his head before attempting to speak to him about the incident. He should have expected this reaction from a soldier, especially one that seemed to be in the drug prevention unit why else would he be chasing minor drug lords through the london underground? And why wouldn't he instantly suspect someone not only seen there but that had obstructed his chase and then offered him free clothing that cost more than his rent. If he was a less controlled man he would have sighed. He could never simply have a date with an attractive man with out something going wrong he decided.

His own suit, his new dry suit he thought fondly, was a personal favorite from Ermenegildo Zegna collection. He ofcourse didn't pay full price- did he ever? - after taking care of some inconvenices for him; mostly hot head reporters speading false lies. It was an easy job and he was rewarded with a fresh suit made of wool and silk. His cotton twill shirt was an instant relief to his now irittable skin and he cursed himself for not requesting a comb to tame his now fallen curls. He finally finished slipping into his shoes and tightening his tie to a comfortable degree. He stepped out and looked at John who had taken to leaning against he sink, "Am I going to be demoted?" He said after a few long seconds.

"Not if you sleep with me."

John's head snapped up as if he'd been slapped, his eyes full of contempt and disbelief.

Mycroft laughed outloud this time his laughter resounding deeply in the small area, "I was only joking with you John. Let me guess," John was staring at him with wide eyes and an overwhelming amount of confusion and frustration, "you are an agent, most likely from the army, you were what - in the medical corps maybe? But you didn't like how little action you saw so you started over in the Army, reached Captain maybe? You're reflexes definitely say Captain but then again you were chasing someone today and you feigned incompetence to insinuate that you were infact a civilian rather than a military man with a mission." John was now staring his jaw slack and his hands loosly gripping the sink in an attempt to keep himself from falling over. "I'm going to assume you are Special Reconnaissance."

He stopped, taking a breathe, he'd let himself say too much. Part of special recon was being invisible, unknown, anonymous, a part time serial killer that no one saw coming. He couldn't help himself, he wanted John to feel inferior, he wanted John to want to prove he was dangerous.

"Wow. Just wow. You got all that from me knocking you over in the middle of a station? Are you some kind of genius?" John was looking at him with interest, and hopefully arousal thought Mycroft.

"I am simply one of the Queen's men, nothing special." He said looking down at his shoes and studying them, he gave his umbrella a minute twist as he propped himself up with it.

"Minor position my ass... Sir." He paused unsure of whether to continure. Mycroft simply waved him on, "Pleasantries, forget them. I thought we were here for coffee."

John raised an eyebrow gathering both his and Mycroft's wet clothing into their respective bags before looking back at him expectantly, "So uh yeah. Lets get that coffee Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft let out a huff, "You aren't being serious are you John? Mister Holmes? To you my name is Mycroft." John grinned widely for a couple seconds before, Mycroft assumed, his brain reminded him he was a heterosexual male.

"Alright, Mycroft let's get some coffee then.

 -

Mycroft was enjoying himself immensely. He had realized this halfway through deducing the cafe's patrons to John. He was being very nice, too nice, even going so far as to make excuses for one woman who was entertaining an affair explaing, 'he works extremely late hours, she's probably extremely lonely at night.' John kept laughing in his cup his eyes glancing from each person trying to read them before Mycroft, so far he'd only called 1 of 6 affairs. The air quieted, and John checked his watch out of a habit, he let out a whistle of surpise.

"Wow, it's getting late. It's nearly three! I've got a flat to get back to and work to do!"

Mycroft had found himself unable to breach the subject of dating in their few hours together but he felt more and more confident that John Watson only needed to see that Mycroft was available to make a move. He took a deep breathe, "Girlfriend waiting?"

John laughed, "Oh no, just a flatmate, Gregory Lestrade, he works the Scotland Yard. We're old buddies."

"Really? My brother and him happen to be very close."

"What's the blokes name, if you don't mind me askin'. I might actually know him." John was leaned forward with interest, likely intrigued about Mycrofts personal life as he had barely opened up at all about himself - ministry of defense and all, his privacy kept him alive.

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Although I doubt you've ever met him honestly, he's quite ... difficult in public. Lestrade tends to keep him out of the public eye." Mycroft mused for a moment chuckling inwardly as John subconciously drew closer wanting to hear more, "Let's just say he goes to the morgue for fun."

John sat for a minute thinking, "OH! He's that man Molly Hooper's sweet on. I thought he was .... challenged to say the least, but to be fair I've only ever heard about him whipping corpses for amusement.

Mycroft let out another indulgent smile at the thought of his very nearly autistic brother, "He's a genius in the field of both forensics and chemistry. You'd do well never to get on his bad side to say the least. Not to mention the more gruesome the crime, and the harder to find the clues are, the more excited he becomes. He's very much a child at heart, but a very brilliant child."

John began to speak but was cut off by Mycroft's cell phone suddenly beeping - continously.

"Oh dear," Mycroft said with an ounce of irritability, "My brother is requesting my presense."

John looked at Mycroft and then continued eyeing the device, "Is that a ringtone or something?" He began to put his finger to his ear to ignore the noise.

Mycroft quickly short circuited the battery with a tool he'd picked up from a military contact the first time Sherlock managed to reprogram his phone from afar. He shot a look up at the nearest CCTV.

"It's, well, I guess I forgot to mention Sherlock is quite gifted with numbers and programs.... He enjoys calling me at the most inopportune times. Perhaps we can see each other again?"

John looked down at the floor a very light blush dusting his cheeks as he whispered a bit lower than was required, "Is that allowed? You're my superior I'm pretty sure..."

Mycroft simply put his hand across the table lightly brushing John's, testing the boundaries he had raised up, "John, I am only going to say this once because no one ever needs to know, I find you attractive, I'd like to possible take you out sometime, and on the subject of whether it is allowed let me just say this, no one needs to know that we know who the other truly is. We're just two men who met and became friends. We're civilians, do you understand?"

John waited for a moment battling himself, "I'm not gay, you know."

"I think you're a repressed homosexual if you want honesty."

John nearly spit out the last of the coffee he was drinking, "w-w-what?"

"John," Mycroft finished texting Anthea before returning his attention to the vibrant blue eyes staring across the table at him, "I know more about you from a single glance than you know about yourself. Trust me. Dinner, 8 p.m. another night, I'll text you."

He got up curtly nodding his head before turning around to leave the shop, he could faintly hear John yell after him, "But you don't have my number!"

* * *

 

Mycroft had a cheerful swing in his step as he stepped into his brother's flat very nearly bounding up the stairs. There was no need for masks in his own quartermasters house, everyone here was high priority enough to see through his well-learned facade without much effort. Sherlock sat in his chair, several files marked in bright red ink, reading 'Top Secret', were littering the floor and stacked in different piles. He very nearly stopped to inquire about how Sherlock came into possession of them but decided he was much too distracted to deal with security breaches at the moment.

"I saw that Mycroft." Sherlock's deep baritone voice filtered into the kitchen as he began pouring himself a cup of tea. He smirked unsurprised by his prodigal brother. Well, prodigal compared to others; insanely slow if compared to himself.

"Mmm,” he mused noncommittally, “Saw what, brother dear?" He took his time adding in sugar and cream before inspecting their fridge for a treat or two. He grabbed only one pastry from the top shelf, with great self-restraint, reminding himself that his workout regime could only suffer a few cheats, not an entire batch. The treats continued to tempt him as he shut the door.

"Everything. Your hair, your shoes, the nervous wrinkle in your pants line where you've worried at it - trying to impress someone obviously - but most obvious of all the clothing change." Sherlock took a brief pause daring Mycroft to correct him. He merely shrugged; he felt no need to goad his brother's detective skills forward when he was so clearly looking for something interesting to tear apart. Everything else aside, Mycroft was not a fan of Sherlock's boredom being taken out on his person.

"You’re quite right, Sherlock. I was accidentally knocked over in the rain today by a blundering pedestrian." He walked into the living room seating himself across from Sherlock with a small sigh of defeat. He'd let Sherlock pick him apart now and then he'd be left in peace as he thought about his future dinner plans.

"One of your suits is missing. You never share clothing." Sherlock grinned mischievously bouncing up in his chair to sit on the balls of his feet, his fingers steepled as his stared intently at Mycroft, searching for clues.

"Ah. You've met someone. He was high rank, but not higher than you, obviously, as he didn't have his own assistant for clothing retrieval." Mycroft sat his face blank, his only real defense against Sherlock's deductions at the moment. "Yet, you worried your pants hem something you reserve for myself, mummy, and world war 3 situations..." He trailed off leaving Mycroft with the slight, unlikely, hope that he would be stumped. "Mycroft, you fat bastard, you met a prospective date? That's impossible. Their security levels would have to rival our own."

Sherlock's face was wrinkled with disgust at Mycroft's exasperated smirk as he no doubt imagined the results of his brother in a monogamous relationship. "Sherlock, it isn't anything dire. It's simply a man - a civilian."

"Don't lie to me Mycroft! He's not a civilian if you gave him your time, and brother dear the surveillance by Mrs. Hudson says you gave him nearly 4 hours of your time."  Sherlock left the chair to stand menacingly in front of Mycroft. "I will not share you with someone unfit to be your partner. I won't lose to these desires you seem to have again."

Mycroft sunk in chair deflated, "Honestly, Sherlock, it was only a date."

Sherlock stomped his foot petulantly and Mycroft was immediately reminded why he kept his own personal flat across town. "Sherlock, we hate each other, remember? You call me fat, I glare at you with contempt. That's our dynamic. Just because I saved you from jumping off that building it doesn't mean you can come back and take over my life."

Sherlock, whirled around to face him, pointing at him angrily, "You're the one who said I never showed you enough affection! That I was ungrateful!" He spat out the words vehemently. "Now that I depend on you, you're angry with me? IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M WORRIED."

Mycroft pulled his hand down his face feeling every bit like an adult trying persuade a child to grow up, "I said to show affection, not keep me from dating. It's been two years Sherlock. I have needs!" Mycroft's face was flushed now, his tea long forgotten on the mantle near him.

Sherlock dropped down elegantly and Mycroft had to stop himself from admiring his beauty. He drug his pale fingers along Mycroft's jacket, his eyes hard and desperate, "I can take care of them. You know I can. I've practiced before."

Mycroft swalloed uncomfortably before he could speak, "Sherlock, I told you before. I won't, I can't. It isn't proper.'

He moved his own palm into Sherlock black curls, absent-mindedly wondering about their red sheen. He soon pulled his brother into an comforting embrace, "I know you're scared Sherlock. I'm all you've ever known - the only one to understand you - but I need you to be brave, okay?"

Sherlock relaxed over time in his arms, his body beginning to tremble, his knees tiring by now. He was pulled from his thoughts by his brothers soft voice, "I don't remember how I lived before you saved me." Sherlock's face was currently buried in his chest.

Mycroft chuckled, "Well before you attempted suicide and drugs you were a handful. You were always at the yard, always bothering Lestrade. In fact if I remember correctly, he used to be your favorite."

Sherlock heaved a bit in his arms, taking a shaky deep breathe at the mention of Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I think it's time you started living again."

Sherlock released himself from Mycroft's arms slowly, "We are never going to talk about what just happened here, ever."

Mycroft tried very hard not to roll his eyes, "You're recovering from a mental breakdown and drug abuse, it's alright to be weak Sherlock."

"I am not WEAK." He paced between the kitchen and the chair, "I need to think. Go away."

Mycroft sighed, already braced for what seemed like an everyday occurrence in their lives. Sherlock was suffering. His mental state deteriorated from lack of use and drug abuse. The H.O.U.N.D. program had barely begun before Sherlock solved their forensics mysteries in less than a week. Going so far as to clone bluebell the rabbit and recreate her glowing gene as a dominant feature. His brilliance out shined everyone.

Mycroft hadn't been surprised by his brother’s drug abuse and constant verbal assaults, but the suicide attempt had scarred him deeply. If he'd been anymore distracted by his former partner he would have missed the final telling sign, a hug from his brother,and a simple kiss on his mummy’s cheek at the holiday dinner. It had been snowing that Christmas and no one would have seen him until the morning, his fresh blood staining the winter wonderland. It would have been a harsh reminder of his families’ inability to spot everything.

He had pulled his brother backwards off the rooftop ledge with barely a second to spare they had both stayed there as he held his brother, listening to the violent sobs that wracked Sherlock's body. His younger brother wailing in his arms begging for death - begging for the monotony to stop. Mycroft could understand the pain, but he had found ways to manage it. Food, television, exercise, puzzles, even sex helped when he was particularly restless. Unfortunately Sherlock had managed his recovery by becoming a part of Mycroft. He starved for his brother’s attention, for puzzles, for something more. Any partner was a threat to his well-being in Sherlock's eyes. And Mycroft doubted he would ever be forgiven for his blindness.

Mycroft made his way towards the stairs unwilling to look back at his brothers sullen figure now staring out at the world he so rarely participated in his violin crooning a soft romantic lullaby. He stepped out leaving his brother in peace and headed towards the Scotland Yard. It was time to help Sherlock find himself again even if it meant putting off his own needs, and sometimes he wondered to himself, even if it meant the country’s needs.

* * *

 

Mycroft spent the ride to Scotland Yard reaching into his reserve energy. Greg was a good man, and he had helped Sherlock before, especially during his last episode of drug abuse. He had found Sherlock's substance filled body slumped over a park bench not far from his flat at the time. Calling an Ambulance and tracking down Mycroft's number from Sherlock's discarded mobile had forever put him in the Detective's debt. Of course he had returned the favor several times over - helping with debt, difficult cases, publicity scandals, and last but not least allowing his prodigal brother to work there solving their cold cases - but Mycroft, deep down, never felt he had sincerely repayed Greg. It would be highly improbable that he could ever extend his gratitude efficiently enough to equal saving Sherlock's life.

The Detective had never asked for any thing in return, with the exception of updates on Sherlock's recovery. Mycroft had at first thought Greg was merely a kind soul hoping to comfort him but as the time lapsed and Greg kept coming he noted the closeness rising up between the two men. It wasn't unlike a friendship, something Sherlock had never truly grasped. Sherlock at first merely tolerated Greg's company, enjoying the way his insults rolled off his back, but Mycroft noted as time went on during his rehabilitation that Sherlock came to look forward to his weekly meetings with the Inspector. Much to the Holmes' brothers surprise Greg offered Sherlock the famed consulting job, something that kept Sherlock clean much longer than anything else Mycroft had ever attempted. He supposed their friendship ended rather abruptly when Greg announced his second marriage, one that Sherlock deduced would fail out of spite; a miserable attempt to keep his friend for himself.

If Mycroft had been less involved in his own relationship perhaps he would have realized that Sherlock was harboring feelings toward Greg, more so than was normal for a friendship. Perhaps, if he hadn't been so self absorbed, he could have offered advice to both parties on how to move forward - towards a healthy relationship. He hadn't though, and he watched Greg enter an unsatisfying marriage and Sherlock a fast downward spiral into depression. Sherlock had been clever though, a true trooper, for the first time in his life he was trying hard not to negatively affect Mycroft or Greg's current relationships. The suicide attempt left Mycroft shaken, and prompted Greg into an immediate divorce. There was something about watching someone nearly blink out of existence which pushes people from their comfort zones. Unfortunately Sherlock had regressed after his attempt, refusing Greg's company, insisting they were never more than acquaintances. Mycroft was unsure who was more hurt by the admission, Greg or his brother.

Opening the car door he took in the crisp London air; the night sky, while nearly impossible to see through the smog and street lights, gave him a slight peace. He had taken a chance appearing at the Yard so late, it was possible Greg was home for the night although Mycroft found it unlikely though due to his strained social life. More likely Greg was staring at a pile of unsolved cases pining for the golden days when he could simply toss them to his partner-in-crime. Mycroft gave himself a minute to mull over his options; groveling was available, but he preferred to be more dignified. Regrettably his options were few and Greg seemed the only real opportunity to patch up his brothers declining mental health. His emotional dependence on Mycroft was becoming unhealthy and Greg's depression was no doubt deepening the longer Sherlock kept his distance. It was no mystery that Greg had come to terms with his infatuation before Sherlock who was fighting his own epiphany.

The halls were quiet, his footsteps echoing even with his careful gait. He had no trouble remembering Greg's office door, having been here several times during Sherlock's consulting stint. The light, as he had suspected, was on inside, the soft glow filtering out into the hall. He stepped into the doorway knocking softly, "I'm sorry -" He started, but Greg interrupted him in a fit of surprise, "GOD MYCROFT! Jesus, you can't just creep up like that you bloody arse!" He was clutching at his chest in the image of mock heart attack and Mycroft deigned let him take several breaths before continuing unaffected.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you during such a...busy... time," He glanced around at Greg's desk; a half eaten donut,- a few hours old if he guessed- as well as cold coffee and paperwork chaotically scattered about, "but I'd like to talk to you about Sherlock." If possibly Greg's face went even paler in the dimly lit room, his eyes widening slightly as if he felt caught in between the tracks and an incoming train.

"I'm not sure-" Mycroft refused to let him finish, "It doesn't matter what you think Detective. It matters what I think and unbeknownst to Sherlock, I fear to think what will happen to him if you do not return to his life." Cringing visibly Greg brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck anxiously; obviously unaware how see through he was to Mycroft. Worried, upset, depressed, constantly craving Sherlock's attention even if it were to be given through insults and demeaning comments. Greg quieted, unwilling to suffer more of Mycroft's dictum's.

"Sherlock... He's getting worse." He looked at Greg with a knowing frown, "Worse than even before. He won't eat. He won't sleep. He's taken to paranoia when I speak to new people claiming he cannot live if he is not my focus." Greg's faltering intake of breathe comforted Mycroft; Greg knew what this could mean, if Sherlock was to revisit his old fears.

"Do you think you could meet with him? If only a brief visit to the flat; possibly rekindle the friendship you once had?" He sounded desperate, but Mycroft supposed he was; desperate to save his little brother.

"Mate, I don't even know if he'll see me, much less speak to me. You know, after the divorce and all..." Greg's voice sounded defeated, but Mycroft sensed the hope that wasn't brave enough to be voiced yet. He could understand Greg's fear of being hurt, Sherlock was a vicious child when he was afraid. Looking at the chair in front of Greg's desk he gestured towards it, "Do you mind if I sit?" Greg shook his head, "Go ahead."

"Well, I think if I was to be there for the... meeting. It would go much smoother. Sherlock, he gravitates towards me now, obsessively refers to my judgement. I think I could manipulate the situation onto smoother waters. You'd like that wouldn't you, Greg?" He clasped his hands together in an attempt to seem in control, although Mycroft's nerves felt thin. This plan could work - would work - if he could acquire Greg's assistance.

"I guess. I haven't much to lose by trying." He sounded put out, picking at the tables trim, keeping his gaze down and away from Mycroft's own.

"No, you don't have anything to lose, but you do have something exquisite to gain, Detective." Mycroft left off the unspoken words, but they both knew the implications. Greg's eyes snapped up defensively, "What are you talking about? We're just friends."

Mycroft found this the perfect opportunity to rise and leave the Detective to his own thoughts. "Mmm. Quite, Detective. I'm sure you believe that; it's too bad though, I fear Sherlock may think of you as more...than that." Rounding the doorway Mycroft smiled to himself; seeds planted, and plan in place, he felt quite satisfied.

Greg's voice followed him out of the door, "Mycroft, do you mean it?" The question sounded tired and weak and slightly afraid. Mycroft almost felt pity towards Greg's self deprecating mode of guilt. He kept walking letting his voice carry his words back to Greg's ear, "You'll have to come and judge for yourself. I'll send a car Gregory."

* * *

 

Mycroft's office was the epitome of boring today. He could hardly stand the monotony that was his life currently. After his dramatic escape from the premises yesterday for fear of execution and his run in with a MI6 elite agent, sitting in his office briefing politicians about new policies seemed positively mundane. It wasn't that he minded the work, everything had a purpose of course, but today he needed something else. He needed adrenaline, he needed excitement, he needed his blood pumping through his veins. And that is enough of that, he thought surprised at his own audacity. He was beginning to sound like his brother spewing such nonsense.

He found it didn't take much longer for his mind to slip from repeating reforms and new rules to daydreaming about his next meeting with John Watson. The man had been so calm and stoic during their meeting, eventually he had lightened up later in their meeting but Mycroft couldn't help but deduce the man's severe passion for serving his country. In Mycroft's eyes that was the first thing that John Watson was doing correctly, the rest was still attempting to protect and serve his country even when on a date, although it was entirely Mycroft fault for appearing to be a drug dealer of sorts.

Taking a burner* out of his desk from his top drawer with the false bottom during one of his many breaks in between clients he recalled John's number from the files Anthea had looked through today. While his codename and ranking as an agent was currently unavailable - another reason Mycroft was quite sure John's clearance was extremely high - his 'civilian' paperwork was still currently on file from his earlier days. Giving Anthea a few hours to search the databases she found him a working number and a current list of his living relatives. He found it strange that someone who had family would work in such a high risk occupation. It made him wonder if John had needed the money or if the need for danger simply ran in his blood lines.

His sister, Harry, apparently a frightful alcoholic, was currently booked with an undercover agency called 'Viper' he noted. John most likely knew the group; they were famous for their widespread influence of the drug underworld. Mycroft doubted, however, he knew of his sisters extreme involvement within it. She was nearly the top mastermind behind the group now. He shrugged the information off his shoulders for the time being, making a small mental note to look into destroying the group without suffering to much collateral damage. Typing in the number, he wrote up a quick sms before sending it off.

[sms: blocked number] It's been too long since you last knocked me down with your beauty. -MH

He grimaced immediately after sending it. What was he? A school girl with an infatuation. He sat the phone down, irritated with his own lack of restraint. He jumped, pleasantly startled, at the immediate buzzing of the cell before it had even left his grasp.

[sms: John Watson] When you said you would be in contact, I imagined it being less Shakespearean and more James Bond villain. -JW

Mycroft, in a moment of complete and utter joy, let himself smile at the screen in front of him. His eyes immediately darted up ensuring his door was closed and these few moments of genuine happiness were locked away from prying eyes. Still grinning at the other mans snark he pecked out a quick reply.

[sms: blocked number] So I have a streak of romanticism, sue me. -MH

[sms: John Watson] Hmmm. I'm on a job you know. I probably shouldn't be talking to you. -JW

Mycroft looked up at the clock aware that his own protege was currently awaiting instructions. Semi-dissapointed that John seemed busy and completely dissapointed he had to talk to his own Agent, 1023, Mycroft opened his desk taking out his other cellphone. He only knew his Agent by his codename and he kept it that way for a reason. Sentiment between him, M, the leader of the MI6 and the British Intelligence branches, and his underlings was not an option. He'd seen that mistake made before between the original Agents 007 and Q. They had never quite recovered when their team was disbanded and discarded.

**[sms: M] Are you in position. -M**

**[sms: agent 1023] Affirmative. -A1023**

**[sms: M] Plan 44N is a go. -M**

Briefly returning his attention to his burner he texted John again, this time his emotions more subdued as the full extent of his previous orders came to weigh down his concience. He'd ordered a good man to be sniped. It wasn't a wasteful murder, the man had stole important classified document, but he'd been a decent worker and those were hard for him to find as of late.

[sms: blocked number] Sounds exciting. I'm sure it's much better than my desk work. -MH

[sms: John Watson] How'd you get my number? I bet my bosses wouldn't like me being so accessible. -JW

Mycroft rolled his eyes; John knew his clearance was high but he doubted that John knew exactly how high he was. In fact, not many understood that while Mycroft pretended to simply be a 'relayer of messages' he was in fact the head of the department and secretly the force behind the branches. He preferred that people didn't realize the extent of his power. Agents and Assassin's lacked a large deal of difference when it came to knocking off the person in charge; Agent's killed in hopes of moving up ranks, Assassins at least did it for their income. He could respect a person who was doing a job rather than playing a game of chance with their career and other peoples lives.

[sms: blocked number] I doubt they pay attention to you. You're just a field agent... Right. -MH

**[sms: agent 1023] Kill Aquired. Body taken care of. 44N is now complete. -A1023**

[sms: John Watson] I thought I was a civilian Mr. Holmes. -JW

Mycroft rolled his eyes with exasperation at John's snark. He was clearly enjoying this game of theirs.

[sms: blocked number] Of course, my mistake John. Dinner? 8pm? -MH

[sms: John Watson] Oh, all booked up. -JW

Mycroft found himself looking at the phone, a distasteful grimace marring his pale features.

[sms: John Watson] Don't hurt yourself there. I know you must be glaring at your phone. I'm kidding. Sure. 8pm. -JW

Closing the phone, he leaned back in his chair rather pleased. That had went smoother than he could have imagined. He wondered if John had been joking about his ignorance of his bisexuality yesterday or playing into Mycroft's 'fresh blood' kink. The more he thought about John's actions yesterday versus his actions today he wondered how much of John he actually knew. Deductions were useless if the person you were accessing knew how to alter their appearance to the minds eye.

**[sms: agent 1023] Will that be all sir? -A1023**

**[sms: M] Yes. For now. -M**

 - 

He told himself he wouldn’t text John again that day, or that week, but after three days with an uncooperative little brother who picked at his patience constantly he felt he needed a reprieve. It wasn’t that Sherlock was accidently pressing his buttons either; his brother was more than aware of his actions. Moving his items slightly to the left, or folding his bath towel in half rather than in thirds, were two things that, while frustrating, he could overlook. It was the constant warfare on his psyche that was bothering him. Every morning he found his coffee spiked with a new substance, or his food sprinkled with strange chemicals that Sherlock had found in the fridge. The first time he wasn’t on his guard. Two years living with Sherlock had caused him to slip in his wariness of the environment around him when he was within their flat. The drink wasn’t harmful but the amount of ‘speed’ that Sherlock had confiscated from the evidence lab at their workplace had caused Mycroft’s normally calm heart rate to race uncomfortable fast, rendering his deduction skills quite useless for the next two hours as his mind couldn’t keep up with the information overloading it. Sherlock had paid dearly for that, reaping a strict talking to by Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft had made it to work on time regardless and for that he found himself proud, although he assumed from Anthea’s odd stare he wasn’t hiding his high very well.

The third day had pushed him over the edge and into texting John Watson. Sherlock had woken him up at 4 a.m. in only his pants attempting to pick the lock on his top drawer - the only part of the entire house he wasn’t allowed to access. Mycroft kept his security sensitive files locked away and out of site from lesser clearanced individuals, Sherlock included. Waking up on his only day off to his little brothers guilty face had given him a blood rush; standing up quickly, and slightly off balance he swung at Sherlock, physically demonstrating his anger. His brother dodged the motion of course, but the action was not one either of them took lightly. Mycroft never touched anyone physically, it was in bad taste he believed. The pure emotional response Sherlock had pulled from his brother frightened him, causing him to flee the room before Mycroft could grab him.

It was now 8 a.m. and he was still awake from the earlier fiasco, his mind unwilling to let him forget his emotional slip up. Clenching his fist, and pressing down into the mattress he did his best to delete the fallacy from his mind; years and years without an outburst and then… to explode so suddenly. It irritated him. The frustration stemmed more from the idea that his brother could still provoke such a childish response from him than any actual remorse. Dragging a phone out from his desk drawer, another burner he’d nicked from the office, he typed John’s number out.

[sms: blocked number] Hungry? -MH

[sms: blocked number] Free? -MH

[sms: blocked number] Breakfast? -MH

He grunted throwing the phone onto the covers and raking his fingers down his face, aware that his hair was mussed up in several different directions. He was losing his mind. Who sends three texts that quickly? Someone desperate, a bloody genius wouldn’t be needed to see that. Suddenly aware of his state of dress he threw back the covers and slipped out of his pajama’s and pants, sifting through the nearby dresser for a clean pair. Changing clothes felt like starting over and he needed to turn over a new leaf this morning before he murdered his brother for being a prat.

[sms: john watson] Bit over excited there aren’t we? -JW

He grabbed up the phone, smirking, pulling off his silk night shirt before settling on a white oxford button up -casually but still fashionable.

[sms: blocked number] I apologize. I may have overstepped my welcome. it won’t happen again. -MH

[sms: john watson] No, no, mate. I was only teasing you. Meet you at??? -JW

[sms: blocked number] I will send a car. Would thirty minutes be long enough for you? -MH

[sms: john watson] Perfect. -JW

The restaurant was quaint and Mycroft felt completely underdressed. Sherlock had thrown almost all of his suits into the floor and threatened to pour bleach over them by the time Mycroft finally escaped the flat. He was currently lucky to be wearing his white button up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a grey tweed vest and matching trousers. His shoes were an ill matched black but he doubted John had a talented eye for fashion details. He was even lacking his tie due to Sherlock’s tantrums. He waited, somewhat anxiously, as he was seated mulling over ways to not only stop Sherlock’s trust fund income but tp start funneling it to his own savings account. Not that he needed any more money at this point but it was the punishment rather than the money he was focused on.

John arrived within a few minutes. A smile shining specifically for Mycroft as he took his seat across from him. He felt a warm satisfaction in his gut as John clasped his arm happily, “How are you? You look like shit Mycroft.” Removing his hand, a bit too quickly for Mycroft’s taste, he began flipping through the menu. Rolling his eyes at John’s bluntness he crossed his ankles beneath the table. “Well, if you must know I had a rather… shit morning.”

He barely reacted to Mycroft’s use of foul language humming noncommittally, “What did some nation decide to start a war?” A smirk appeared on his lips and Mycroft had slight flashback to their original meeting; perhaps flashing his top security badge in order to woo John had been a bad move. He certainly didn’t seem impressed by his qualifications. John looked up, winking at him, “Don’t look so upset. I’m only teasing. You’re not very good with humor are you?”

Pursing his lips Mycroft chose to ignore the comment, slightly offended by John’s snarkiness. It was much too early for John to be sassing him. “My sense of humor is fine. What do you want to eat?” John rolled his eyes trying to not smile at Mycroft’s irritation, “Better question, what happened to your fancy ‘westwood’ clothing? Decide to come down the peasants level?” There was a slight edge to John’s voice that made him look up and stare at him hard.

“Is there something I’m missing Mr. Watson?”

“Oh, now I’m Mr. Watson instead of John?”

Mycroft huffed, his expression quickly turning into a scowl, “This was obviously a mistake.”

“Was it?” John was leaning forward now, the menu discarded as his fits clenched in anger, “I was under the impression you had it all fixed from the beginning.”

Mycroft saw the signs fit together clearly as John offered him the last line. This soldier was afraid; afraid this was a game; afraid of rejection; afraid Mycroft was using him for some kind of means.  _He doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m just minor operative playing the fuck-people-over-and-take-their-positions game._

“I’m not lying to you John. I honestly enjoy your company! Regardless of your ranking.” He spoke without malice, praying the sincerity showed through his tone. He was rewarded with John’s shoulder untensing.

“Good.” The word was gruff and ground out but Mycroft could already tell the battle was won and they were currently on their way to moving past it. “I want the truth about what happened this morning. I want to know we’re equals in this… thing we’re doing.”

* * *

 

 _It’s been three weeks since I visited with John,_ Mycroft huffed, _and I’ve spent every moment apart thinking of him_. He wasn’t irritated with his desire for John so much as his desire for a relationship. The ground underneath his very foundation felt as if it was slipping; cracks surfacing within his strong, stoic, facade. Relationships were a weakness he could not afford he reminded himself brutally each time his phone buzzed, physically making himself wait a few minutes before writing a response. John seemed unperturbed by his difference in attitude; flatout avoiding the subject through their texts, preferring to talk about trivial subjects such as the weather and the civilians around him. Mycroft amused himself with the idea of a hypothetical relationship. There were so many flaws; employee relationship rules, security breaches, paperwork to be filled out if such a bond did arise. It was almost too much work for Mycroft to actually consider sealing this thing between them.

Clicking his pen habitually, Andrea made an irritated noise from her spot adjacent to him; curled onto the couch as if her heritage were feline. With a frown he set the pen down attempting to soothe his anxiety by sipping on the still warm coffee Andrea had graciously prepared for him earlier in the morning. The liquid ran down his throat, warm, and sweet, unlike the black coffee he normally prepared for himself. He silently applauded her taste today, the gentle flavouring helping to relieve his mind slightly. It was relaxing; sitting in his office, the sound of static playing through his speakers softly while his assistant busily tapped at her keyboard, awaiting his instructions. There are several things he could send her to do, busy work, if he felt so inclined, but he’s rather attached to the aura of stability she’s currently emitting. It helps keep his thoughts straight and farther from John Watson.

Mycroft shifts in his seat, not yet audibly groaning, but the motion is enough for his assistant to acknowledge his irritability. He normally sets for hours without moving, lost in his own mind, exploring plans and strategies until Andrea would pull him back, but today, his mind isn’t even a reprieve. He curses himself for not building a ‘palace’ of his own like his brother. Mycroft had never needed such a childish way of remembering things; he simply recalled the information without aid. Today, however, the idea of a doors, and rooms in which he could shut John Watson’s history and image into made Mycroft regret his brilliance. John had taken to Mycroft quickly after their initial row. Sharing his morning’s troubles with John had not only made him feel better, and surprisingly validated in his actions, but eased John’s fear of manipulation. Mycroft found himself putting more and more distance between himself and John as the weeks progressed though, Sherlock becoming rapidly harder to handle and even more dangerous to himself. Settling into a new position, resting his elbows on the sleek black desk before him, he sat his chin on top of his clasped hands.

“Sir. I think this distraction of yours is beginning to affect your work.” Andrea’s voice rang out from couch with an undercurrent of chastisement. Mycroft made a noise of acknowledgement but declined to defend himself. What was he to say? Her statement while not desired was certainly correct. “Sir?”

“Yes, _Andrea,_ I heard you.” He huffed, throwing his hands up with exasperation and turning to make eye contact with her. She gazed back, seemingly amused by his actions. She held her cell loosely and gave a slight shrug.

“Then I assume you can hear your cell phone vibrating as well? It’s probably urgent...being your agent’s only connection to you and all.” She raised a well groomed eyebrow in his direction daring him to say something. The noise of his cell phone vibrating suddenly apparent to his oddly ‘selective’ hearing today. He narrowed his eyes at her, effectively ending the conversation before swiping open his messages.

**15 minutes ago [sms: agent 1023] Awaiting orders, sir. -A1023**

**10 minutes ago [sms: agent 1023] Awaiting orders, sir. -A1023**

**5 minutes ago [sms: agent 1023] Sir? -A1023**

For the first time he could remember he responded late to an agent. Of course it had only been fifteen minutes but in that time he could have lost an agent or a kill. He needed to get his current situation with John Watson cleared up before he could hope to do his job at full capacity.

**[sms: M] Plan 921 is now in play. Report when finished. -M**

Keeping his eyes steady and doing his best to hide his intentions from Andrea, he grabbed his old burner from within his desk drawer, pulling up John Watson’s contact.

[sms: blocked number] Could we have dinner. I have an urgent matter I should like to discuss. -MH

Delayed by 5 minutes [sms: John Watson] Bit soon to propose, eh? -JW

[sms: blocked number] Seven tonight agreeable? -MH

[sms: John Watson] No time to chit chat? Alright, see you at seven. -JW

Mycroft sat the phone down, a weight lifted off his shoulder but immediately replaced with anxiety. Was he simply going to date John and keep up the guise of ‘civilians who just happen to be Secret Service operatives’ or would he come before the board and exert his power in order to legalize the relationship? Even if he did, that too had pitfalls. Politicians and agents alike knowing he had a weak point other than his younger brother. For the most part Sherlock was smart and clever, sly enough to keep himself out of the publics eye, but he barely knew John apart from his cover and name. He obviously wasn’t rogue but that didn’t immediately mean he was innocent of all crimes either. Gesturing at Andrea for her attention, he could hear her sigh somewhat fondly as she moved to refill his coffee mug.

“Sir, should I make myself comfortable for the rest of the work day?” The question was respectful enough and he couldn’t blame her for feeling rather uncertain with his mood swings today.

“Yes. You shan’t be going far from me. I need something unchanging around me today.” He didn’t need to explain what he meant, not that he would have if she hadn’t understood, but luckily Andrea caught on quickly, especially as of late.

“Of course, sir. Be back soon, sir.”

-

The car arrived at exactly 6:55 p.m. giving Mycroft enough time to enter, be seated and appear completely at ease when John walked through the restaurant doors at 7:02 p.m. Mycroft refused to hold his tardiness against him, understanding the pain of traffic during dinner hours. He wore his finest suit, a light blue, complete with a light pastel colored vest and pale tie. Unfortunately, the suit did make him appear paler, but it was an expense he paid for comfort. The suit, old but in exquisite shape was Mycroft’s security blanket. On days he had to forgo his umbrella this outfit seemed to calm his nerves. /Tonight…/ Tonight was the night he said his feelings out loud, letting the words cement themselves in both John’s and his psyches.

He did feel as though he was over thinking the matter but his thoughts were shut down immediately by John’s gorgeous body sauntering towards him. Fitted, tan khaki’s, finished off with a plain, thin, white leather belt; a blue light denim button up that stretched across his filled out chest; and a creamy dark blue cardigan pulled loosely over his tucked in shirt, unbuttoned, allowing for the full perusal of John’s physique. The new information he was cataloging almost caused him to miss the most interesting new development; John was wearing black, rimmed spectacles. Mycroft found himself completely devoid of any reason to keep his distance from John. He did his best to close his, now gaping, mouth as John took a seat across from him.

“Sorry! Just got off a case. Undercover.” He was absolutely beaming as he grinned at Mycroft, his joy at their long over due date immediately obvious. Mycroft found himself slightly disappointed by the statement.

“Oh...So you don’t,” Mycroft gestured to his face and then the other mans. John stared at him in confusion, blinking slowly before comprehending the motions.

“Oh! No, I mean yeah, these are mine. My contacts were bothering my eyes earlier. Been out in the wind and weather a lot these past few days.” As per usual John went straight for the menu, ignoring the other treats on the table, appetizers of fine chocolates, and a pre-filled wine glass. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast Mycroft! Completely forgot about lunch.” The words were mumbled absently but they were directed at Mycroft.

Rolling his eyes at the amount of attention he lost when food appeared Mycroft snapped his fingers lightly to get John’s attention. “I wanted to talk to you, John. about something _important_.” John stilled, his blue eyes looking up at him through stray wisps of blonde hair. He slowly sat down the menu, looking exactly like a cornered animal; perhaps not cornered exactly, Mycroft corrected himself. John didn’t seem disagreeable so much as wary - _increased heartbeat, nervous, leg shaking, slight perspiration appearing, ah! He thinks this is a breakup._ “We aren’t ending this,” he gestured between them, “please do not give yourself heart palpitations.”

John visibly relaxed, his gaze still defensive, and his hands balled up tightly. _Best do this quickly_. “Would you agree we are… going steady?” Mycroft sat his hands on the table, not quite reaching for John, but close enough for comfort. John nodded once, nonverbally agreeing to Mycroft’s statement. _At a loss for words John Watson?_ “I just...I wanted to.. desired..” He bit his lip, cursing himself for fumbling over his words. His mind was cluttered with useless information and all of his data for John seemed to flood his vision every few minutes. John reached across, giving Mycroft plenty of time to move his hand, before clasping it softly, rubbing his thumb comfortingly over it. He was leaning forward, his lips opened slightly, every ounce of his focus bearing down on Mycroft, “I-” Mycroft’s phone rang loudly, causing them both to jump back, startled; he laughed nervously reaching over to silence the alert. “It’s probably Sherlock.” Turning back towards John, his courage stronger now, “I was hoping -”

He glared at the phone; this time vibrating loudly, interrupting him once more. Frustrated he silenced the alert, and put his phone into his pocket, clearly frustrated, before moving back to speak again. John stopped him, “You know, you should check it. You never know what could have happened...What if something happened to your brother, you know?”

Mycroft grimaced. He knew far too well the feelings associated with unforeseen circumstances such as accidents and death. He had Sherlock to thank for that. With a bow of his head, he took his phone out, slipping his hands from Johns. He did his best not to appear frustrated with the text before him.

**[sms: CODE RED] PLAN 992A**

**[sms: CODE RED] REPEAT PLAN 992A**

**[sms: M] 10-4. ST. IS GO. -M**

Looking up, he smiled sweetly, “Let me text this person back and we can continue.” With a faked air of politeness he muttered, “Work problems. They never cease.” He contacted Agent 1023 promptly.

**[sms: M] PLAN 992A, no dalliances. -M**

Setting his phone down, he was determined to enjoy his night with John Watson. He raised an eyebrow as he turned around to see John texting a stricken look on his features, “Are you alright John?” The blonde had the audacity to pull a fake smile onto his face as if Mycroft could not see through it.

**[sms: agent 1023] On it. -A1023**

Mycroft ignored the text his focus completely on John Watson, who was shyly holding his phone underneath the table. _Embarrassed, uncomfortable, family issues?_ “Absolutely, it’s just Harry really needs me right now. She did something stupid... you know how siblings are?” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Mycroft could feel his senses tingling; something was off about John but he could easily blame it on the awkward dinner, the long weeks without seeing each other personally, and now his sister, Harry. John spoke up again, reading Mycroft’s discontentment, “We could meet up tomorrow if you like? But I have to go.”

Standing up, attempting to wipe the growing disappointment from his face, Mycroft gave John a quick hug, wishing he could touch him longer, but refusing to press him in the current situation. He should have put Harry under a watch; if he’d been more vigilant John wouldn’t have been forced to deal with it. Watching John walk away, he sat back down, picking up his now vibrating cell phone.

**[sms: agent 1023] En Route -A1023**

**[sms: M] Excellent. -M**

Taking a large sip of his wine, he called over the waiter ordering dinner for himself. A small pain stung his gut as he remembered John leaving the restaurant without eating. He had just been complaining about his lack of food intake, Mycroft remembered grudgingly. He’d deliver food to his flat tonight, or invite John after he dealt with Harry. It was only polite.

* * *

 

Mycroft stares outside as he nears John’s flat, the pinging of his cellphone drawing him out of his reverie. He doesn’t bother turning his head to look for the cellphone, reaching around and patting the seat until his fingers find it. His eyes are glued to the dreary weather outside. The rain is falling heavy, streaking the tinted windows with droplets that reflect the London streetlights. Normally he would find this enamouring - the cleansing process of nature - but today his mind, as per usual these days, was transfixed on John Watson. It had been hours since their meal and he assumed from John’s recent text, _Headed home, sorry about lunch,_ that he would be there already. He looks down surveying the contact name surprised to see his Agent’s name in the contact label. He had uncharacteristically let the agent slip his mind since dinner.

**[sms: agent 1023] Injured. Require medical assistance. Confirm or Deny? -A1023**

**[sms: M] PLAN 992A success or failure? -M**

**[sms: agent 1023] Success. Injured. Require medical assistance. Confirm or Deny? -A1023**

**[sms: M] Confirm. -M**

**[sms: M] Anthea, have A1023 papers on my desk tomorrow. Thank you. -M**

**[sms: A] Affirmative. -A**

He rolls his eyes not at the agents audacity to seek medical assistance but at his apparent panic. This is the agents first injury; his success rate unparalleled. It’s common for their first injury to be reacted to as if they’ve been gravely hurt. He also knows he should care more about his agent but he’s too focused on delivering food to his,  probably starving, boyfriend - well soon to be boyfriend, hopefully. Mycroft closes the phone, not caring to ask for an update in the future. An agent of his would know to respond to him after the initial medical report.

The flat, he notices right off when he arrives, stepping out into the rain, umbrella out, and to-go bag in hand, is that the flat is a bit run down. He can tell the home was a fixer upper and that John’s recently done work to the facade - the walls outside littered with half finished plastering and paneling. Mycroft makes a note to bring someone out to look at it tomorrow. For a split second he actually ponders why John would fix the house himself with the salary he receives from the government, but he realizes quickly someone as earnest as John would want to do the work himself. Mycroft stands outside for a few seconds steeling his nerves before raising his knuckles to rap confidently against the doors worn surface.

It’s odd, he suddenly notices through his haze of excitement, that the door is slightly ajar. He crouches down inspecting it; deducing why someone as stoic and deliberate as John would do such a thing. His eyes trace the door frame looking for signs of forced entry before his gaze stuttering to a stop at the fresh drips of blood that grace the doors hinge; barely visible bloody finger prints mar the frame. Through his panic, he immediately enters his own mode of defense, effortlessly turning from civilian to agent. Mycroft readies himself, closing the umbrella slowly, letting the rain fall on his expensive suit as he silently pushes the door open, his umbrella pointed out as a weapon of defense upon any one he might find inside. It’s quiet, and for that he thanks the gods, not wishing to give himself away due to creaking door hinges. He sets the the bag of food on the nearby table, doing his best to keep his ears open, and his actions silent. It takes him less than thirty seconds to target the groaning coming from the hall. He slinks through it, on guard, nervous. The door is barely open but he can see the blood on the floor and carpet before he sees the sliver of the person inside.

Mycroft takes a calming breath before barging into the room, his umbrella raised, all but ready to draw out the blade inside if things turned nasty. He startles as he enters the bathroom, stepping back almost as quickly as he stepped inside, the sight of John perched on the sink, his arm, from what Mycroft can make out through the blood, is torn open, and John is sewing his skin back together. He takes in as many deductions as he can; alcohol on the counter both for the pain and a bit of cleaning, a towel drenched in watered down blood in his sink, the drips all over the floor, his lack of clothing, clad only in trousers, his chest bloody and bruised. He’s pulled a gun, pointing directly at Mycroft’s head, and he feels grateful he hasn’t pulled the trigger, his face currently screwed up in confusion and anger; the needle hanging out of his skin awkwardly from being forgotten so quickly.

“John?...” His voice cracks, he’s sure of it, but he can’t hear anything over the pounding of fear in his ears. It reminds him of an ocean, beating against the shoreline -relentless and uncontrollable. He watches in slow motion as John’s face softens and he sets the gun down back on the counter, gesturing for Mycroft to come closer, his pain apparent in his normally soothing features. He looks more gaunt and pale than normal and Mycroft simply wants an explanation before he orders people be killed for touching John.

“Shh, Myc, shh.” He reaches out with his good arm, trying hard to ignore the pains in his injured arm, touching Mycroft’s face in a pacifying manner, trying his best to keep his blood away from Mycroft’s expensive suits. “Just some thugs that were hanging around Harry, I took care of them. Promise.”

He doesn’t care that his suit costs more than John’s entire bathroom, he saddles up close to him, slinking an arm underneath John’s, trying to heave him into a standing position, “I have a car, outside, we have to get you help.” The words are falling out his mouth, and he can’t quite believe the complete and utter fear that seems to be tainting his normally calm tone. John swats him irritably, a gasp of pain escaping his tightly shut lips, “STOP IT MYCROFT, BLOODY FUCKING STOP IT.”

Mycroft freezes, every muscle in his body suddenly answering not to his subordinate and lesser employee MI6 Agent Watson, but his boyfriend John. “Okay.” The word is quiet, submissive even, unnatural for his tongue. John senses the change as well, but he doesn’t comment, choosing instead to settle himself comfortably on the counter again, keeping his free arm around Mycroft’s neck for support, emotionally and mentally. “What do I need to do, John?” He’s whispering now, not eager to upset John’s temper again.

“I need to finish these stitches and I need you to help me clean up.” He picks the needle back up, continuing with his stitches. Mycroft’s rubs his back more out of worry than comfort but John understands the meaning. “I’m a bloody good Doctor, Mycroft. I can sew up my own fucking wounds you know. Stop panicking, you’re making me nervous!”

He tries taking in a deep breath, attempting to find his center. He can’t remember the last time he felt so vulnerable and he blames his silly crush for his current inability to handle the situation emotionlessly. “Okay, let me have some of that.” He grabs the alcohol off the counter, resting his hand over the dried bloody prints left over from John and drinks as much as he can before coughing at the bitter after taste. The burn helps him focus and he already feels less high strung. He makes sure to take another gulp before staring back at John.

“It’s finished, ‘Croft. Go grab me some clothes from my bedroom. I’m going to clean this. I think I’m going to pass out soon. I can feel the adrenaline fading. Exhaustion is next.” John’s tieing off his makeshift stitches, and Mycroft finds himself enamoured by the fact that it will scar, and it will be something in the future that binds them together. John’s room is immaculate, much like everything else in his life, bland, white, lifeless, meticulously organised to an almost OCD pattern. It’s not of course, Mycroft would know, but other descriptors do not seem to fit. The first drawer is full of things that Mycroft thinks he shouldn’t see; family pictures, illegal weapons, and a few recreational drugs, he assumes John’s nicked off dealers. The second has a pair of sleeping trousers and pants, and he picks them up quickly. He grabs t-shirt from his closet before he turns towards the bed. He makes sure to grab a duvet on his way out tossing it onto the couch along with a few pillows.

The bathroom is still a mess, blood drips everywhere, and stains marring the pretty mock-marble counter. It looks as if a small animal has been murdered and Mycroft decides he’ll throw in a favor tomorrow and bring a crew to fix the place up. John is nearly nude when he returns, trying to shed his pants awkwardly without the use of his left arm. Mycroft blushes furiously when John stares back at him through the reflection in the mirror and he hastily looks away towards the pale blue wall. He sticks out the clothing he’s brought, unable to look at John’s almost nude physique.

“I need your help, Myc…”

It’s the pain in his voice that clues Mycroft into John’s dislike of the entire situation. John is a proud man and accepting help is one of his least favorite actions. Mycroft does his best to change the subject while shuffling forward, his eyes still averted towards the ceiling, only seeing as much of John’s head, and back, currently turned towards him, as he must. “My name is Mycroft, you know? And you would do well to say the entire thing.”

If the situation had been less dire it might have been humorous to see the immediate look of frustration that carved itself into John Watson’s features. The flush of anger washing away whatever embarrassment he had been holding on to. _Perfect,_ Mycroft thought as he stood. He closed his eyes more or less, refusing to sneak a look at John in such an exposed state, and gently helped him out of his pants, tossing them into the stained clothing towards the door, and reaching back for the cleaner clothes. He’s quiet again, focusing in full on both not looking and looking enough to get the articles of clothing on without hassle. John’s flushed now, anger and embarrassment heating up his skin and causing him to look even more distraught than before.

The entire fiasco takes less than ten minutes but Mycroft would argue it felt like an eternity. John avoids his gaze pretending he’s fiddling with his drawstring when Mycroft can tell he’s feeling shy about the situation. He slips an arm underneath John’s good one, once more, ignoring the indignant huff coming from his partner. The walk towards the living room is longer than he remembered, but he thinks adrenaline must have accounted for the time lapse earlier. He tallies the blood loss estimates and lack of nutrition affecting John and quickly decides dinner is in order, ignoring the fact that John seems rather hesitant to allow him to stay. With care, he sets him down on the broken in sofa, placing the pillows he found earlier underneath his hurt arm with care, and propping his legs up, the duvet firmly placed over him now.

John’s weak, but he tries again to speak up, “Mycroft I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but you can go, really. I’m a doctor. I will be fine.”

It warms Mycroft’s heart slightly to see John fighting him so vehemently, like an injured animal, afraid of its savior, rather than thankful. He supposes that is the kind of thinking you subscribe to after being burned a great many times. Mycroft ignores the statement of course turning around with a flourish and looking for the kitchen, which conveniently is connected to the living room by a large open space which allows Mycroft to keep an eye on his ‘patient’.

He strides across the distance in a few short steps. He can hear John grumbling behind him but he chooses to ignore it until he’s finished finding him sustenance. The kitchen is small, Mycroft thinks haughtily. It’s nothing compared to his own personal space but he thinks he can make due. At one point in his life he had considered culinary arts as a serious fall back to his government plans.

Breakfast foods are Mycroft’s speciality, as are pastries, but he quickly finds John’s kitchen is less stocked than his own; the lack of available supplies quickly makes John’s lack of eating much more understandable. He has barely anything, his cabinets empty and rarely used. His trash can, Mycroft notices, holds all the evidence Mycroft needs to correctly assume he’s been living off take out lately. He finds potatoes and eggs deciding to make Potato Salad as a quick starter; easy, quick and full of protein. John’s beginning to drift off in the living room, and Mycroft wonders whether he should let him, with the state of his injuries. Deciding rest is good, he lets John’s nap from 11pm-Midnight as he prepares the food, and puts the finishing touches on a burger he’s made.

If he can say nothing else, it’s that John’s house is built for a bachelor. He makes two plates, aware of his own appetite coming alive, he gently nudges John, waking him before sitting down beside him. “Here, eat this, you’ll feel better.”

John looks at him unconvinced but takes the plate anyways propping it on his thighs and taking large bites, letting the crumbs fall carelessly into his lap. Mycroft finds it hard to worry about the mess as he eats his own in small controlled bites. He doesn’t want to eat too fast under stress and give himself indigestion. Unlike John, he hasn’t been very active, and it shows in the malfunctions of his body, especially when his old age takes form in gaseous bursts after dinner. The food is finished quickly and Mycroft takes the plates back into the kitchen rinsing them off quickly before returning to the quiet living room, intent on making himself comfortable in the nearby armchair, watching John throughout the night.

He’s surprised to see John’s moved down into the middle of the couch and that he’s watching him with a soft expression. “Will you lay with me?” The words are barely said above a whisper but Mycroft hears them as if John’s yelled them across the room, shuffling over and situating himself behind john, letting him lay in between his legs, his head rested on Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft isn’t above letting out a sigh of contentment, still frustrated that he’s yet to label their relationship out loud. Unfortunately he feels now isn’t the right time either, as he wraps his arms around John, gently massaging his good arm until he passes out, the exhaustion forcing him into a deep sleep.

John’s nods off within a few minutes and Mycroft follows suit his suit uncomfortably wrinkled but otherwise fine. He wakes a an hour later, his brain kicking on around 3 a.m. It bothers him that he can’t fall back asleep but he uses the time to text his Agent.

**[sms: M] Details? -M**

A soft ping goes off from the nearby table and Mycroft looks curiously at John’s mobile. He takes a full thirty seconds to look between the two, disbelieving. He shakes it off as a coincidence, even though if he’s truly being honest, he doesn’t believe in such things. The probabilities are currently against him and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest now.

**[sms: M] 1023… John? -M**

The phone sounds again and Mycroft finds himself numb as he looks down to the man in his lap. The man that conveniently ran into him, conveniently earned his trust, his love, his devotion. The man that completely pulled the cover over his eyes. He had obviously been duped for no other reason than John wanted power; Mycroft was surprised he hadn’t been taken out already. All the odd moments and arguments over secrets; now it made sense, he was just an agent out for information.

He quickly shoved John up, letting him fall onto the couch without much regard for his injury as he shoved on his shoes uncaring of scuffs and bends in the leather. He grabbed his coat, ignoring John’s frantic questioning in the background, as he sprinted out the front door, his umbrella forgotten inside. He needed to breathe, to think, to figure this out somewhere else with a clear mind. He runs to his home, grabbing the hidden cash before slipping out the back door the rain pouring over him, drenching his clothes as he attempted to block out the nights events.

-

Sherlock heard the door open but ignored it, certain his brother was finally home from his date. Or at least he assumed he was on a date. Mycroft refused to tell him anything since his outburst earlier in the month. He sat fidgeting with his cell phone rereading the old messages between himself and Greg currently exploring the notion of phoning the man. Mycroft had planted the idea in his head and he found it more and more enticing as Mycroft found himself busy with his new man. He started with an undignified yell as he heard Mrs. Hudsons scream; fear striking in his heart as he ran down stairs.

“What! What’s happened?”

He took in his surroundings confused at the image before him; the door opened wide, the rain pouring inside, Mrs. Hudsons fearful expression, the man collapsed in their door way, blood rolling across the steps.

“Oh my god, move Mrs. Hudson.”

He bodily picked the young man up instantly recognizing his as Mycroft’s new beau, unable to comprehend what could have led up to this moment. He carried him quickly upstairs, ordering Mrs. Hudson to clear the kitchen table before he laid him on, quickly assessing the stitches that had pulled out quite recently, the flesh now more or less mangled and at risk of an infection.

“Go get me dry clothes right now. Find some of Mycrofts! Hurry! He’s barely wearing anything and it’s barely above freezing outside!”

His hands were shaking as he applied pressure to the wound - he needed help. Nervously he dialed Greg’s number, letting out an anxious breath as Greg’s sleep lidden voice came across the phone. “Hey Sh’rl’ck. Wha’ you need?”

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. He knew this wasn’t suicide but he couldn’t help what the broken body reminded him of.

“Greg, hurry. I think this guy is dying!”

Greg’s voice was louder this time, more awake, “What the bloody fuck?”

Sherlock didn’t have time to argue, “If you love me still, you will fucking get here. Now.”

“I’m coming. I swear.”


End file.
